


Of All the Co-Pilots in All the World

by gallantrejoinder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya is not happy that she and Sansa appear to be Drift compatible. As it turns out, that might be a blessing in disguise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All the Co-Pilots in All the World

Arya is pissed as hell that of all the people in the world, Sansa is the one she’s supposed to be drift compatible with. Arya is pissed off and unafraid to let everyone know it, especially her stupid father, who happened to be the one who insisted they train together in the first place. That led to a sparring match their brothers had cheered on, which led to a stalemate, which led to Jon ( _the traitor_ , Arya thought,) telling their father that their mental compatibility was obvious from their physical compatibility.

‘It’s just because she’s so technical. You know I like Syrio’s fighting style better, Sansa is just so different, that’s the only reason we can’t beat each other-’

‘Arya, no,’ her father had said sternly. ‘From what your brother tells me, you and your sister are perfectly compatible, and if you don’t at least try the neural handshake, you can live with the knowledge that your petty arguments got in the way of saving the world. Is that understood?’

Arya had bitten her lip in frustration. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, even though she was digging her nails into her palms.

So here she is, strapped into the as-yet unnamed Jaeger, her prissy big sister wrinkling her nose beside her with distaste at her armour. 

‘It’s not exactly clean, is it?’ Sansa mutters to her as she vainly rubs at a spot on her forearm.

‘Yes, because clearly that’s the number one priority when facing down a Kaiju. Sorry Mister _Giant Monster From The Deep_ , my sister’s armour’s got a bit of dirt on it, could you hold on a tick?’

‘Arya! Would it kill you to take a little pride in what you’re-’ Sansa pauses as a voice crackles around them.

‘All right ladies, this is the first drift for both of you, so do try and keep it together. Arya, temper to yourself, Sansa; you look lovely.’ 

Sansa blushes. ‘Thank you, Mr. Tyrell.’ Arya struggles not to roll her eyes. Her sister is definitely barking up the wrong tree. Still, she can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy at yet another reminder of how much better looking her sister is than her. The best compliments Arya gets are on her graceful sparring techniques. They’re better compliments anyway, but all the same, boys like Gendry don’t really care about the force behind a punch in the girls they want to date, do they?

She doesn’t have time to dwell on it as a calm female voice begins to count down from above. She feels a flutter of nervousness in her stomach. She’s not sure if she really wants it to work or not – she doesn’t want Sansa to know how jealous she is, for one thing. Not to mention she doesn’t need confirmation that Sansa thinks so little of her. But still, this is her big chance. She’s always dreamed of fighting amongst the best, even if it’s with Sansa. She’s not sure what her father said to convince Sansa to try the program, but here she is.

‘Three …’ _Probably promised her a new ipod or something_. ‘Two …’ Arya glances at Sansa quickly, and is met by an apprehensive gaze. ‘ _One_.’

Arya thinks she can feel herself gasp as her mind slips from her grip like a tidal wave, rushing towards Sansa.

She is seven years old, and screaming at the pain of her first broken bone. Bran had dared her to climb the old red-leaved tree at the bottom of their garden, but she slipped, and Robb is rushing towards her, and her mother has cried out in the distance, and she has never felt so much pain in her life.

Nine. She feels small and cold, surrounded by white hospital walls and her pale family. Bran is still asleep down the hall, but Arya knows that when he wakes he will not wrestle or climb or run with her again. Her mother is struggling to hold back tears, Sansa’s flow freely. Robb, Jon and their father wear identical expressions of ashen disbelief. Rickon is confused and worried and quiet, holding tightly to her hand. She must be brave.

Now she is eleven. Sansa is twirling in her newest dress at Christmas, and Arya feels a stab of jealousy as everyone laughs and applauds. She doesn’t want a dress; she’s overjoyed with her new set of sparring sticks. But it’s not fair that Sansa is always so effortless graceful and beautiful, it’s not fair that she’s always been better at everything.

Thirteen now. Her first lesson with Syrio, and even though she’s nowhere near any good and Syrio is completely polished, practised and sure, she feels a fierce kind of pride in her water dancing, as he calls it. She is good at this. She is brilliant. She shines.

Eighteen, and for some time she has not been the only Stark who practises self-defence and survival skills, though Bran’s are limited to theory and adaptable wheelchairs. Even Sansa and Cat have taken up the practise at Ned’s insistence. The world is a dangerous place with more Kaiju every year, and fitness and readiness is essential for coastal families like theirs. Ned’s job requires that this is where they stay, so they stay. Her father does not want her to apply for the Jaeger program, but she knows, she knows in her bones, if she can just find a co-pilot she will be home.

She is twenty years old and her sister is staring at her with wide eyes from the ground where Arya has thrown her. But it doesn’t last long as Sansa twists and deftly kicks Arya’s feet out from under her. Sansa rolls on top of her chest and struggles to reach for her fallen stick, but Arya has already kicked her knee up against Sansa’s back. Sansa gasps in pain and Arya flashes a triumphant grin as she rolls Sansa off her, but Sansa has found her stick and scrambled to her feet, and they face each other from opposite corners, breathing heavily. Arya thinks she can see the hint of a smile on Sansa’s face, something rare enough when it’s directed at her. ‘Time,’ Robb says, awe in his tone, and as Arya wipes the sweat from her brow, she notices Jon is gone.

And suddenly, Arya’s memories slide seamlessly into Sansa’s.

Sansa’s five years old and she has just received her first CD. As she lets the old-timey music wash over her, she feels a light begin to burn in her heart. One day, she will sing just as beautifully as this woman. One day she will know all the songs and she will sing them so sweetly that everyone will listen and she will be a star.

She is seven and her little sister has gathered flowers for their father, still covered in dirt and more red leaves than blooms. But still, their father laughs and sweeps Arya into his arms, and Sansa aches to know what it feels like to be loved so effortlessly. She wants to be loved without having to try.

Now she is eleven and she is gripping her mother’s hand so tight, so tight as Catelyn says very quietly that Bran will be needing a wheelchair now, but that’s ok, he’s alive, your brother is alive Sansa and it’s going to be all right. But Sansa can’t stop crying because death has never passed so near to her and all her favourite Disney films have not prepared her for unhappiness like this. She doesn’t want to sing any more, or at least, she doesn’t want to be adored. She’s desperate to change the world in that moment, she wants to find a world where happy endings do happen.

She is sixteen and her father has moved them to the coast, where it is dangerous and scary and new and exciting. He insists, though, that she learn self-defence and survival, which she begrudgingly does. It’s not as if a few well placed kicks will stop a Kaiju, but it might just get her through the rubble and remains of a crushed city, and it’ll get her through a dark alley at night. Her ballet lessons come back to her as she goes, and it might be sweaty and disgusting, but it’s also a skill, one Sansa is determined to master. And she will do so with flowery leggings, thank you very much.

She is twenty-two and she may be used to boys staring by now, but she’s still shy around Loras, the engineer. But she is far from shy as she fights her sister, quick and technical to temper Arya’s graceful but unpredictable style. And then Robb has called time and Sansa knows, she knows right away what they’re going to say about her and her sister, and she hopes, deep down, that they’re right. She wants to be a good leader. She wants to do her duty to the world. She wants to prove to them that she is strong enough to do this.

And then, there is Sansa and Arya, together.

And the metal around them is responding, is alive, and they know each other’s movements before they happen. And they can’t help but laugh, both of them, knowing that it worked, knowing they did it. Together.

Then . . . 

She is Arya again and her sister is gasping and closing her eyes beside her. When the armour comes off, Arya has to fight the urge to hug Sansa, the lingering after-effects of sharing such intimacy with someone that you could feel their heartbeat as your own. From the way Sansa grits her teeth, she’s fighting the same urge.

The cheerful engineers and technicians know that the Drift requires a few minutes of recovery after, so they’re left alone as soon as they’re out of the Jaeger and their heavy armour. Arya glances at Sansa from the corner of the claustrophobic room they’ve been given privacy in.

‘Oh, go on. I want to hug you too, it’s the bloody Drift, you know that.’

Sansa wrinkles her nose, but moves towards her and wraps her arms around her shoulders. ‘Thanks,’ she says, and Arya just hugs her right back and tries to not be annoyed that it feels so comfortable. Damn her sister’s height.

‘Arya,’ Sansa begins, and Arya can already tell this is probably the kind of conversation Dad’s been telling them to have for years. ‘I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to make you feel so . . .’

‘You can say it. I was jealous. I still am sometimes.’ Arya fights the urge to bury her head in her sister’s shoulder in shame.

‘Yes. That. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. I didn’t think I . . .’

‘That you had that effect on people. Trust me, I’m your little sister, I can see it. I can see that I _don’t_ have that effect.’ She can’t keep the bitterness out of her tone.

‘Yes, but Arya, seriously. I was jealous of you too.’ Sansa sounds so earnest, but Arya can already believe it.

‘I know, stupid, I was in your brain ten minutes ago.’

‘Well. I was. It was always so effortless for you, Mum and Dad always just adored you no matter what you did. I always had to try.’

‘No you didn’t. They would have loved you no matter what. You put that pressure on yourself.’ That was clear to Arya the moment she entered her sister’s mind. A perfectionist, her sister, in everything.

Sansa’s quiet a moment. ‘I guess so.’ Arya grips Sansa’s waist a little tighter.

‘Sansa?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m sorry. I never . . . I know I was a pretty disappointing younger sister.’

Sansa finally steps back and grasps her hands. ‘Arya, no I didn’t mean it like that!’

Arya smiles ruefully and taps her head. ‘Inside your head, remember?’

Sansa looks shamefaced. ‘I only . . .’

There’s silence for a few minutes, but it breaks when Arya snorts with laughter. Sansa looks scandalised. ‘What? What are you laughing at?’

‘I can’t-’ Arya has to pause, she’s shaking with laughter. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell mum you got your period for four _months_.’ Even now, she can recall Sansa’s embarrassment and disgust as if it is her own.

Sansa turns red. ‘Shut up! _You_ wet the bed until you were ten!’ Arya gasps and is about to counter with something about Sansa’s first kiss, which had gone horribly wrong in every possible way, including that Joff turned out to be a bit of a wanker, but stops.

‘Erm. Guess we haven’t got anything on each other any more. I mean, we’ve got _everything_ , so really, we’ve got nothing.’

‘Guess so,’ Sansa replies. And now it’s awkward. She extends a hand. ‘Well. How about a truce then?’

‘ _Truce?_ You and me?’ Arya can’t help feeling incredulous.

‘Yeah.’ Sansa’s voice softens. ‘We may as well. It worked perfectly, they’re almost definitely going to make us co-pilots now. We’re going to have to be in each other’s heads all the time. No place to hide, we might as well _try_ to get along.’

It’s logical. And besides, Arya can’t help but think, _maybe we made a few . . . misjudgements. Maybe._

‘Okay. Okay, truce. You and me. Co-pilots.’ She grabs Sansa’s hand and shakes it. Sansa grins, and Arya rolls her eyes at her enthusiasm, but smiles.

Arya goes to open the door and face down her brothers, who are no doubt going to give Sansa and her _so much shit_ over this, but Sansa makes a noise.

‘Er. Arya. Just one thing.’

‘What?’

Sansa walks closer, her eyes darting from side to side, ‘Is Loras really gay?’ She asks in an undertone.

Arya snorts loudly. ‘Yes, oh my _god_. I can’t believe you didn’t know. He’s dating Renly from down in tech.’

Sansa looks mortified. ‘Oh god, I’m an idiot.’

‘Yeah, you are,’ Arya says, and receives a whack on the arm for it. 

‘Come on. Let’s face the music,’ she mutters, but they’re both still smiling.

As they walk out the door, Arya can’t help but feel a pleasant sort of warmth in her chest. Maybe they can actually do this. Maybe they’re not so different after all.

~

They call their Jaeger _Lady Nymeria_.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an idea on tumblr! Credit goes to [this post.](http://sansaofhousestark-archive.tumblr.com/post/57045069318)


End file.
